spiritual – Page 8 – Aremyfeetofftheground

In flight

Soul-spoken spirit,
unbound, in flight.
Pineal eye gets a look.
Events celestial.
Of a hair’s breadth am I,
in this filament.
Then,
a promise warms me
like an innocent’s blush.
And now
this mote
understands.

In the beginning

In the bleak black crack of a Singularity,
a palindrome world is hid.
It had a name that time forgot,
but none could mispronounce

Doppelgangers dwelt in its brimstone airs.
Fleshed out from learned lives in Otherlight,
their honour is the keeping of an Obelisk.

Placed upon this cinder world,
and not made by man or creature,
it is outside of space and time.

None may see it closely,
save for the days of their death.
And, when their spirits flee,
they will have seen a thing, etched in its glassy gleam:
The Yin and the Yang of Existence.

Too little, too late?

It doesn’t matter now.
What you say.
What you do.
If you cry,
gnash teeth,
rend clothing,
wear ashes.
There are no more new leaves
to be turned over.
A change of heart grows of its own,
and not quickly.
See,
only a few will have seats
in the parliament of planets.

The Difference

Clarice awakes,
but her dream abides.
Don’t be offended when she speaks pleasantries,
or not at all.
What you might hear is only a placeholder
for a short story of ten thousand pages.
She’s seen a distant horizon, but can’t get there.
Knows the true names of our colours,
and how to ask questions of God.
In the saga of her sleep,
charging. Unresponsive.

The spirit is willing

The ghost plans a jailbreak.
Pinpricks of itch are felt in unscratchable places.
Toothpicks to the temple-
bookmarks of dying dreams.
Figurative fingers squeeze the liver, now the spleen.
The heart and the brain begin their acquaintance.
Give it up.
Give it up.

Afterword

Will you tell me, Father,
what the sky looked like
when the Angels fell?
When one of power
sowed the great discord.
The First Lie.
Kin against kin.
Weapons in Elysium.
Did the black flock
blot the Sun
and foul the Earth?
And did She banish them
forever to the Nether?

Two walls

One’s been too many years in the building,
and what it shields may have lost its worth.
The other, I hold onto, as I walk,
in secret regret.

A silent fool is none the wiser.

uncomplaining drudge

with hangdog look

cultivated trudge

martyr’s walk

will Heaven prize you?

ah but the heart is known

so cast aside your props

and take tutelage

from the angels of every day.

Jigsaw

What is this, my friend?

You, the one who never makes plans,
have cobbled this one together
from the remnants of the morning.

You really shouldn’t be left alone,
you know,
but it was with relish that you contemplated an afternoon of dead rest,
owing to their shopping and a movie plans.

Out the doorway they shuffled,
with rearward glances and catcalls of false regret
that you were under the weather.
You smiled slyly and pushed the door up.
There.

One cup of hot freshly ground coffee.
One lazyboy that the cats have owned for a long time.
Fresh batteries in the remote,
good stories on Netflix.
None of those shoot ’em up, blow ’em up, car-chasing, teeny bopper,
obscene stand-up comic kinds of pictures.

Said cats are sorely pissed that you have had the temerity to take their chair,
but they settle in, seeming to recognize that this is your day.
Plus, you have cheezies, and that seals the deal.

Now for something calming and easy to digest.
A romantic comedy?
Nah, too contrived.
A documentary on whales?
Seen one, seen ’em all.
Horror?
It took you ten years to get over the last one you saw.

This is cynicism 101, you know, right?

The two fuzz buddies settle down,
and take turns licking your orange fingers.

A half hour later,
while you’re still scrolling through movies as if you were playing the slots,
something heavy wells up from within you.
No reason. No reason.
The puzzle of your life, so carefully fitted,
has lost its connectedness.
Higgledy-piggledy, topsy-turvy.
There’s that old familiar throat tightness.
Those ball bearings you’ve gotta swallow,
and you do it.
Even here, you do it.
Even here, alone, you struggle for control,
but pools of your tears darken your shirt of pastel blue.

The felines somehow sense this sadness.
They creep up your shoulders and nuzzle your ears with their purrs.
And you can touch them.
You can hold them.
You can cry it out until they are wet and want to lick the salt.
Never would you let anyone see this.

By eight o’clock you are composed,
redness and puffiness gone.

You are hoping they hurry home.

Skeletal

all the days of a life
in misery’s company
its dark bird upon the shoulder
visible to none but its host
but not in mirrors.
its hooks,
in the trapezius,
do not disturb much
unless rebellious thoughts foment.
it tells
what may say
what may think
what is self
until at last the Self cries
bring me the hydrogen winds of the bomb,
make vapour of my body
my love
and render my bones to the sun.